


Scars

by Dewdroplotus (Sevargs)



Series: Unbroken [2]
Category: D.Gray-man
Genre: Angst, Canon Compliant, Complicated Emotions, Drinking, For whatever the hell Canon means in this series now, General Triggers, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, POV Second Person, Suicidal Thoughts, self punishment, will add tags if needed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-07
Updated: 2020-09-07
Packaged: 2021-03-07 05:34:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 18
Words: 22,412
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26347924
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sevargs/pseuds/Dewdroplotus
Summary: A scar is a mark left from a wound, but when you have no scars, what does that definition mean to you? Sometimes the answer only comes in your darkest moments.Sequel to Wounds - Can be Read Standalone
Relationships: Kanda Yuu/Allen Walker
Series: Unbroken [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/36963
Comments: 2
Kudos: 10





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> In an effort to clean up my lost tumblr blog and put it to rest, I'm finally posting the last completed work I did. It's from 2013, and I'm posting it as it was originally. Past me loved future me enough to write the summaries in advance. Thanks David from 2013.

“What does a scar mean to you?” 

The question comes at you out of the blue and you turn to your familiar. He’s there by the window of the small place that you share with him. The sun’s still leaking in through the glass, but he’s dropping the shade to cut that down a bit. It’s that time of day when the sun’s become the enemy on this side of the house. It’s also the time that you and he are most likely to be in the kitchen. You’re sitting at the table with papers splayed out in front of you—news from the local towns and really nothing else of interest—and he’s just quietly leaning against the window sill. His back is to it and he’s focused on you—his white hair framing his face from where it escaped the bind at the back of his neck.

“What are you trying to ask by ‘what does it mean’?” You respond to the question with a question, because you’re not really sure where he means to go with this particular topic. Sometimes, he can be the strangest person you’ve ever met; actually, most of the time he is. From the moment you met him, you thought he had a few screws loose and when he forced his way into your personal life, you knew he was insane. 

“What I mean is; you don’t have any physical scars on you, but a scar is a scar and there must be a different meaning for one for you. What is it? What defines that word in your life? You don’t have to answer, I’m just curious.” He sounds pleasant and you’re always wondering how he can bring such provoking topics out so easily like that. 

You stare down at hollow words on thin paper and your eyes see completely different things. Memories crawl across the pages where there should be headlines and it takes you a moment to wrap yourself around everything in your life that you need to draw from to define what a scar to you equals. It’s not an easy task, because scars are the results of strife that don’t vanish and the events of your past—while impactful—are things that you really feel you have washed away by this point. 

Maybe you’re wrong though. Maybe you hold these things in ways that others wouldn’t consider. What is the definition of a scar to you and how can you convey that to the partner that cleansed the wounds out of your soul, many years before? 

Of all people, actually, he should be the easiest. He is the only person you’ve ever been able to connect with like you have. This person is the one that freed you from the horror that was yourself and he’s the one who’s had patience while you relapsed and crushed yourself under your own shame—once everything you did finally caught up. Allen Walker had actually become your savior, in a strange twist of fate, after he broke you down completely. Those deep gashes in you had been erased and replaced by him. 

So what could you consider a scar? If Allen has replaced the negative things in your life, where is there room to hang on to the emotional baggage that had once almost drowned you completely? It is a question that will take time to answer and you doubt that you can come up with anything while you are here with him—this is something that will require solitude to reflect. 

“I’ll have to get back to you on that one.” 

A white brow arches and Allen’s eyes follow you as you rise to place your cup on the counter and retrieve a piece of the sweet bread that you always claimed to hate, but learned to like. “You don’t have an answer then?” 

“No, I don’t,” you reply and take a bite, cutting off any further commentary. Talking when you’re thinking is not your strong point and you’re already long gone to thoughts trailing back into what your life was like eight years ago before Allen Walker had completely shattered your understanding of what it means to share yourself with another person. 

Eight years and he remains the only person to have shared your body since. It’s only his fingers that leave imprints in your skin and only his lips that ever touch yours. Actually, his lips are the only ones you’ve ever touched [ignoring that drunken scientist bastard when you were a kid, of course]. You are almost in awe of Allen, because he’s stuck to you so faithfully that it almost hurts. This man’s feelings for you have long surpassed the threshold of friendship and by now, you should be more than reciprocating. 

Yet, you have yet to truly face the feelings in you. You’ve been with him—fighting by his side, fighting for him, living with him and sharing his bed—since the months that changed your life for the better. Even with this, you still haven’t come to a full understanding of what all of this means and how to respond. Even though he’s spoken it so many times to you, you can’t say it back. 

It’s not that you don’t feel things for him; it’s that you don’t understand the depth or how to truly grasp it. You’re almost ignorant to the emotional things you see in the people around you. The open kisses and affectionate hugs you see from people on the street and the declarations of love from those you consider friends are things that you can’t reason to do yourself. 

Why is it that these things make you so awkward, when—by now—you should be able to openly grasp them with the man you intend to spend the rest of your life by? 

It makes you think, standing there with the broken rays of light from the window shade trickling down your torso. Your eyes follow the light until you’re back to Allen. He looks ethereal where he is and you think it’s somewhat appropriate. Anyone willing to wait for an anti-social jackass to finally come around and love him back has to be some sort of god-sent creature. 

It’s a curious thing, because the reason you can’t answer his question might simply be because the scars are deeper than you immediately think. Digging up these things is something that could unveil part of you that you’re not sure you’re ready to unearth and that’s what’s making you hesitate. 

But he…he dug through the mess of you and brought you back bearing the scratches and bruises of your dissent. If he can do that for you, then you can bear your own cross and do it for him. 

“I need to think,” you announce and absently leave for the family room; a place to sit and grasp at everything in hopes of coming up with an answer to a question you have never had to consider before.


	2. Chapter 2

You're both in the family room--even though you don't have a family to put in there. It's okay that you don't, because you both seem to fill the empty house just the same, Along with the Beansprout's freakish golem. The silence is welcome, really, because you have a lot of things to sift through your mind. It seems like Allen knows this, because he's only busying himself with moving around the fire log and watching the flames dance in your fireplace. This time of year is cold and you know well how Allen seems to absorb that. His body is frigid when you both climb into bed and it takes a while--molding into your body--for him to stop shivering.

He’s illuminated by the light and you keep your eyes on him while the rest of your mind returns back to the pieces of you that you need to somehow fit together. It’s been a week since he’s asked the question and every day you come back to this and think. He’s under the impression you’re meditating and you don’t bother to correct him. Sometimes, you wonder if he even knows you’re watching him. 

His white hair gleams against the red-orange hues and he seems like he’s in an entirely different world from yours. It’s crazy really, because all you have to do is reach out and he’d be at your fingertips; but times like these make you wonder just how different two humans can possibly be before they become a paradox that leads them to being almost the same. 

In all of the strangest ways, he brings out the best in you and he always has. From the day you met him, something in you knew that he was going to invade your life. Maybe that was why you tried to deny him so hard when he arrived in what was once the Black Order. There was an aura about him that you weren’t comfortable with and you had to keep him away. 

That failed, obviously. Somehow you’re stuck to him. It makes you wonder. Once upon a time, he told you that he had gone to your room to talk to you, but witnessed the scene that had drawn you two to this point. What was it that he’d come to discuss? What had been important enough to come to your room that late at night? You never ask and you probably never will. It doesn’t matter now, but it’s always a thing that makes you wonder if you were destined to come down this path either way. 

He brought you back from the darkest days you’d had. When you’d lost so much control of yourself that you really didn’t care if you drowned in the cesspool of shame. How many men had you let tear you apart? 

Your eyes avert from him and you look up at the ceiling, absently noting the cracks in the wall that you’ve been swearing you’ll fix. Looking at him and thinking about then is too hard to do. Your skin crawls when you think about when you’d let it happen and never stopped to reel yourself back in. It hadn’t started intentionally—like most of the worst addictions. Somewhere in all of the bullshit that surrounded you, you thought you could ease it with someone else. When that gave way to seeing yourself constantly abused, you really don’t remember. 

All you recall is that it became so much of an obsession that you really couldn’t fathom being where you are now. Even now, you have difficulties controlling the compulsions and you’re almost positive that Allen’s never going to have to seek someone else out to fill a weekly quota for sex. You still demand it out of him—almost nightly—and he’s still as compliant as that first time. When you want it to hurt, he makes you hurt so much it makes you breathe a heavy breath just thinking about it. When you need his love to bring you back from the hell of your memories, he’s so patient and gentle with you. It’s because of him that you can inhale. It’s because of him that the scars left by the people before him are gone. 

The only teeth permanently sunken into your body are Allen Walker’s. You’re almost certain you can identify him by his teeth marks without a physical reference. 

Does that make him the scar left in you? No. A scar is left over from a wound and Allen has never been a wound. He’s been the bandage. 

So, you’re back to square one and the only constant mark in you can’t even be considered a mark. He’s more like the grace of god giving you a chance to pick yourself up from the lustful sin you’d sent yourself to hell with. 

You lie back heavily against the chair; slightly uncomfortable and slightly pissed off too. Your purpose there was to think. What you wanted to do and what your body needs are conflicting and the ragged breaths you draw have already attracted attention to you. It makes you loathe your own existence for just a moment, because you shouldn’t have this damned problem. You used to pride yourself on your steeled control and now it’s slipped through your fingers like every trace of innocence you ever had. 

Silver eyes have turned on you and you can’t even force yourself to draw yourself from meeting their gaze. The lustful spark in your eyes must be obvious for him to shift his position and stand—sauntering over to you like you’re beckoning him. 

“Your room or mine?” He asks like it matters. The fact that you have two separate rooms is really a moot point, because you can’t remember a single night where you didn’t end up asleep in the same bed after the long hour of sex you always had. 

It’s really strange, because you remember it being such a droll, unwanted thing that your body needed like an addict needs drugs. You hated it, but you craved it like water. Now, you crave only this and only him. So when he’s looming over you, brushing his lips to yours in that asking way he does, you can’t even dignify the concept of wasting the time to move to a different location. 

You store away other trickling thoughts and submit yourself to think about the complicated matters of where all of your scars lie at a later point. At the moment, you need a hit off this drug of yours. 

“Right here is fine.”


	3. Chapter 3

He’s drunk tonight. 

You can tell before you’re all the way into the house. The smell of liquor hits you like a wall and your face contorts and you kick your shoes off just a little harder than before. It’s not a thing that happens often, but it’s a thing you’ve noticed becoming more recent since his Master died. You suppose he’s drinking in toast to the seedy bastard who had managed to financially ruin Allen and turn him into a conflicted gambling god with a slight penchant for an unstable sex-addict. 

You suppose you can’t understand, because you weren’t there. From the stories you have been told, Allen’s teacher was a worthless man who was only good for being a notable powerhouse of an exorcist—a powerhouse that both you and Allen had managed to surpass in the end. Still, his death had done some damage and it shows in nights like these when Allen’s leaning over the low table in front of the fireplace. His focus—if you can even call it that—is directed toward the fire and you doubt he’s even noticed you’ve entered the house. 

Timcanpy has. Allen’s stupid pet floats around and lands on your shoulder with his golden wings drooping down and you know he’s just as unsettled as you are. Allen never liked Cross’s habits, so it’s always a curious thing why occasionally, he would do this. No, he’s not getting trashed every night and most of the time it’s not even a monthly thing. But for the second time this week, you’ve come home to this scene and it cracks the foundations of your comfortable life with him. 

It makes you realize that the person who you’ve always considered to be impervious, is actually as frail as you are at times. It makes your throat tighten and you want to leave as fast as you arrived just in order to not have to feel the way you do. Allen isn’t Cross and he never will be and in the morning—after he’s sobered up—he’ll do what he does every time and hate himself for letting it get that far. Then…Then he’ll smile and go about like nothing had screwed with him enough to make him drown himself in poison. 

Allen has the magical ability to bounce back that you always wish you had. 

For the moment, though, he’s this and that never meant you knew what to expect from it. There were times that he was slurring and pleasant and then there were the times when he was just strange and irritating. Tonight, however, is that night when he is cruel and vindictive and you can see it in the way his attention finally does shift to you. 

His half-closed eyes turn on you and you can feel his judgment on you. That’s a feeling that makes you wish you didn’t come home, because you can’t fight him—that doesn’t do any good and the less you interact, the better it will be tomorrow when he’s done with this. 

You’re not afraid of Allen. That’s certainly not the case, but you are distressed. You are folding your arms in front of you and keeping your distance. He’s not blind or stupid and you know he sees you making purposeful attempts to retreat upstairs before he tries to talk to you. 

“No hello, love?” 

His voice sounds so wrong and you flinch, pausing in your step. You say nothing, keeping the words to yourself and maintaining the cold distance that you’ve adjusted yourself to for the majority of your life for just about all interactions with people. 

“Cold shoulder too? You’re pulling out all of your trademarks aren’t you?” He slurs with the slightest hint of a laugh, before he’s nearly tipping the table over in his attempt to stand. “What’s the matter, Kanda?” He coos at you and it makes your blood boil and reminds you of why you don’t talk to drunken people. He’s mocking you, it feels and you want to leave him to stew in his own inebriated embarrassment. 

That’s an unfortunate conflict in you, because he came to your rescue and lifted you out of the deepest pit of your hell; and yet, you cannot bring yourself to stay with him when he’s submitted himself to a thing he hates so much and never was afraid to admit he hates it. You know you should stay, but you don’t know how to help whatever it is that’s eating him alive like this. 

“I’m going to bed, beansprout,” you announce and you move to keep walking, but he’s staggering your progress and it feels like an out of body experience in just how little response you have when his arms catch your body and wrap you into a chilling embrace. 

“Why are you so cold tonight?” He whispers in your ear and you want to recoil so badly, but you don’t dare to physically show it. “You’re avoiding me. I’m not shaming you, am I? Shame isn’t a thing that you’re unfamiliar with, though. Now is it?” There’s a cutting sensation in your limbs that keeps you in place and your chest hurts because he’s leading down dangerous territory. 

He always seems more honest when he’s intoxicated and it eats you alive at moments like this, where he’s judging you as harshly as you’re judging his strange behavior. It’s only fair, you guess; but it still feels so much like a knife and you’re too tired to deal with the wounds now. 

This all makes you realize that Allen knows himself. He knows his struggles and he’s aware of the things that have left jagged marks in him. There’s a definition that he’s attached that you’re still searching for and he’s so many steps closer to coming to terms with the miseries that his life has dealt him—even when he’s like this. That kills you. 

This man in front of you, drunken and filled with hatefulness at the moment, is still more stable than you. 

You really wish you could leave your self-revelations for times that didn’t leave heavy clouds of self-hatred over you. 

“Do you ever miss your freedom, Kanda?” He asks and your attention is splintered from your own lack of sense and his strange question. He’s always asking strange questions, but unlike the last one—which was turning into his life’s biggest mystery—this one was aimed to hurt. “Do you ever miss when you could pick anyone and just give yourself away to them? I bet the nonattachment was nice, wasn’t it?” 

For a brief moment in time, you hate him. 

What makes it so much worse is that you hate him because he’s right to a certain degree. When it was a faceless person, there was none of this complication. There were no questions so startling in his life that he spent weeks pondering on it until it consumed him and made him really question how comfortable he was and what he was missing from this life that many would call perfect. 

“I hate you when you’re drunk,” you spit and shove him away from you. 

The melancholy smile, which reaches even his eyes, leaves you wanting to just crawl away. “You hate me anyway, Kanda. So what does it matter?” 

It hits you so hard that it powers the curl of your arm until you’ve filled the room with the resounding echo of a slap across his face. There’s nothing you have left to say to him and the overwhelming desire to vomit invades your senses as you turn and take the steps in twos to escape the person who is your savior.


	4. Chapter 4

Liquid runs down into the sink and you’re not in the least displeased by this decision. It’s fairly early in the morning and you’ve finally decided to come down from being locked away upstairs—pathetically sleeping in his bed as a small comfort from seeing him that way. It was only a temporary thing and you know he’ll come shuffling in any minute, looking sheepish and extremely apologetic. He’ll probably hate himself a bit too, because that’s Allen Walker for you. 

Still, you know that some of what he said reflects his feelings and you don’t know how to pick apart what it means in your relationship with him—if you can even call this a relationship. 

Well, it is a relationship; but it’s not the kind of relationship that people seem to think of when they hear the word. You and he began as a very dissatisfying pair of: addict and enabler. The shift from what you had been and what you are has taken so long and ultimately, there aren’t very many things to speak of as far as results go. Your change from then isn’t staggering at all. Given that much, you’re certain that Allen’s not feeling very secure in you and you can’t blame him. 

You hate me anyway, Kanda.

The words come back to you as the last of the liquor drains into the sink and disappears from the house. Does he really feel that way? Does he think that you hate him? Because you can’t even really understand the concept of hating him anymore—even if you tried, you don’t think you could. This person who has become a beacon of light to you really couldn’t do a thing to you to make you hate him. At this point, he could turn on you and you’d probably let him. 

It’s not because you’re a pushover that you feel this way, but because you owe him the unclouded thoughts and eight years of freedom you’ve had from the unclean sin that you bathed in. How funny it was, that he thought that you considered anything before him to be a freedom, when he had been the one to free you. 

Then again, you’ve never explained anything to him and you’ve never let him into your thoughts, because you thought your body language with him was more than enough. It’s apparent now, that it’s not enough. What do you do? Communication is not something that you’ve ever been capable of doing without failing—that was why you’d sunk so low to begin with; because it was easier to just fuck the first person who would give you the luxury. 

Easy is not always the right path, though and you’re learning this the hard way. 

As you predicted, you can hear Allen picking himself up in a series of groans and unpleasant huffing. He probably has a migraine that would be unpleasant even for you and you’ve already set tea on the table for him. What a strange thing, that you can forgive him before he’s even apologized; but you know there’s an underlying reason and when you’re a broken person, it’s much easier to understand seeing broken in others. 

Last night, Allen was broken and you were just at the wrong place at the wrong time for Allen’s lashing. This morning, you realized why Allen was as distraught as he was and you feel a bit guilty for not staying with him. Cross’s death had been seven years ago to the day, yesterday. The days leading up to the anniversary were always the worst and you can’t believe you didn’t realize it. 

You really should. 

Because you bear the ultimate guilt of being the person Cross died to save. 

If not for Allen, you’d be a distant memory. Even Allen’s Master had been able to see how much you matter in his apprentice’s life. The pallid faced male has no qualms telling you that he loves you and you realize today that he’s convinced that you simply don’t care one way or another. 

You do. 

You’re just not sure to what extent or if it’s even fair to say without knowing what your own problem is. Everything in your life is supposed to be fine, right? You have Allen and you have the freedom from the life you had almost corrupted yourself with—on top of it all, the war is over and you live in freedom from anyone who could possibly chain you down. 

So what? 

What is it that you need to sort out to try to reciprocate what Allen wants from you? You know he’s so lost in you that he couldn’t leave you if he tried. That’s why you’re still together, despite the way you can still be as cold and unfeeling as the beginning. Of course, there are moments when you both collide and everything in the world is perfect; but then there are these periods where you don’t know if you should stay or leave and save him from the unfair bind you have holding him down. 

“Kanda?” He whispers and stands in the doorway and you’re so close to dropping your face into the sink and screaming, because you’ve backed yourself into an emotional corner. The only thing you’d been able to do in the past was scream when you’d lost control of your situation and couldn’t gather your thoughts into an easily decodable pile. This time you felt uncomfortably claustrophobic because Allen couldn’t pull you from this corner, since he was half of the problem. 

“There’s tea on the table,” you answer and you feel so pathetic. Nothing else comes to mind and you just stand straighter in front of the sink—casting a glance to meet with gray eyes that speak volumes of apology without him having to speak a word.

He sits at the table without a word himself. The comfortable silence will fill in the gaps and you know the forgiving air between you will make it so neither of you have to talk about this incident—even though it itches at you that you need to. You need to ask and you need to talk to him and find out what you can do to help. 

But you stay silent, because you don’t know how you can help him. It’s hard enough dealing with your own exceptionally prominent faults. You, as a result, are a person who looks in the mirror and forces yourself to see the only good part of you that’s ever existed.

That part of you is sitting at the table and there’s not a mirror in your house anyway.


	5. Chapter 5

He comes into your work space with food—you can smell it within seconds of his entry and you’re thankful for it. This little room had become a space that you had both designed for the purpose of flourishing the creative sides of both of you. In the corner was his grand piano with his guitar propped up by the wall and by the window was your painting supplies—a hobby you adopted in honor of a person who had meant well by you. 

Froi Tiedoll had made a genuine attempt to treat you like a father should treat his child, but you weren’t tamable by someone that couldn’t get their hands dirty. Allen had been the one willing to submit to that level and thus, he has always taken precedence in your thoughts. Unlike how Cross had utterly devastated Allen, you had a respectful appreciation and offered the most proper send off you could to show your reverence. 

You keep his love for art alive by adopting it into your own life in as many ways as you can—despite your lack of skill and discipline. This is convenient for you, as well, because Allen’s hobby leads you both to coexist while you perform the things that leave you both in better moods ultimately. 

He always seems to take a break first and subsequently, he always goes to bring food back. If not for Allen, you’d probably have starved by now. He frets about your health, because you don’t really pay it much attention—not like you should. 

The air between you has cleared since that incident, so his smile feels more appropriate when he sets the plate of food by your feet. Perhaps the method you both choose, to shatter the tension, is more effective than you both think. Sex isn’t a solution to everything, you know; but it seems to speak more than words can do for you. 

Still, there’s a nagging in the back of your mind that you’re set to ignore until you can peacefully resolve the ripples in your peaceful life. All it takes for him to uproot you is a question and suddenly you’re soul searching and questioning the foundations of the universe.

You’re ridiculous, you decide. Just ridiculous. 

“I hope you’re okay with this. It’s not the best, but it’s warm,” he breaks the silence and sits beside you in a chair, so he can eat. Even though you’re nothing special and you have tendencies to disregard him on accident, Allen still wants to spend lots of time with you. He’s not bored of you and you’re still amazed, because he’s been as earnest in his pursuit of you as he claimed he could be, years ago when you challenged him to break you of your mentally ruining affliction. 

It’s almost terrifying, because somewhere you realize you’re taking him for granted and you haven’t been able to stop yourself from continuing to do so. He’s just always been there and you expect he will continue to be there. It’s probably a dangerous way of thinking, but he’s a sincere person and you have an unspoken dependency on him that you’re not ready to admit to yet. 

Sometimes, you really don’t understand why he bothers. You aren’t very responsive to him and it’s quite often that you can go the majority of a day without speaking a word to each other. That can’t possibly be the ideal way to live out the rest of your life. Eight years is a long time when your life expectancy cuts off sharply somewhere around forty—a number you are still surprised by, because you were certain that you had drained yourself to the point where it should have been forty days, not forty years. You suppose that’s the small blessings given to you in the end; more years to spend trying to figure out what is wrong with you. 

By the time you figure it out, you’ll probably be on your deathbed. 

“What are you painting?” His voice is magnetic and he always seems to draw you to him. You pause in your work just to turn and look at him. There’s a look in his eyes that suggests he’s confused by your work and you realize—while your eyes are turned away—that you don’t know what you were painting. Your mind has been lost on thoughts and events—rolling back to things of the past, to the point that you have tuned everything out until it concerns Allen. “It’s darker than what you normally paint.” 

Turning your head back, you finally view the work before you and you try to piece together what your own symbolism in it is and you realize you really can’t. The picture is dark and distorted, filled with black clouds and flowers and trimmed with reds in places that make it look like an abstractly grotesque nightmare. Pretty much like the inside of your mind right now. 

“I ran out of lighter colors,” you lie and stroke the brush down the middle before you set it in the water to keep from drying. He knows you’re lying, but he doesn’t ask because there’s no sense in making a big deal out of something that isn’t. If you have issues, your body seems to betray you enough to tell him through physical contact. He can feel your trembles when you’re stuck on something and it’s eating at you. 

This was how he knew to pick up your pieces four years ago when you completely crashed and couldn’t function for the slew of memories that made you really hate yourself as a person. You’ve never particularly loved yourself, but you’re content to certain degrees. Only he seems to see when you’re not. 

“Do you want to go into town later and pick up some more?” 

“We can do that,” you answer his question with a nod and reach for the plate by your feet. Moments like these make you realize how fortunate your situation in life is compared to what it was before Allen Walker ever came into your life. 

If only you could figure out your feelings and sort your inner turmoil in order to properly express this to him.


	6. Chapter 6

“So, Yuu, when are you going to move out of Allen’s house and go find a wife?” The man sitting across from you leans in with a smile and you resist the urge to correct him with the fact that the house belongs to both of them. Every time you see this annoying red-head, you remember why it wasn’t often that you did. For many years, he hasn’t let down on the idea of hitching you to any pretty girl who could fit the role to be your wife and mother of the children you don’t want to have anyway. For such an observant man, he’s a little oblivious—or you and Allen are actually as discreet as you try to be. 

You and your partner aren’t partners to anyone looking in from the outside. You’re just a pair of jaded old veterans who live together to staunch the uncomfortable loneliness that you’d otherwise face. It’s almost certain that you’d shock Lavi out of his seat if you told him that you and the fair-haired friend of his have been sleeping in the same bed for quite some time; or that the two of you had done things Lavi wouldn’t even imagine behind locked doors in the very building he shares with you back then. 

“I don’t want a wife, moron,” you reply and take a sip of the hot tea that your hands are wrapped around to keep warm. 

“Dude, it would be better for you, ya know? You’re kind of miserable.” 

“I’m not as miserable as you think.” You roll your eyes because this conversation is almost a copy of the last time you met him at the café to catch up while Allen took Lenalee to the local shops—a task that neither you nor Lavi wanted any part of. If Allen wanted to do girly things with her, he could shave his masculinity by himself. 

“You look like it and you still sound just as disgruntled as ever. Maybe you just need to get laid. Have you ever considered just, I don’t know, hitting up a brothel?” He’s crude as ever and hilarious in the context in your head. To him, you probably seem like a blushing virgin, but that’s pretty much the exact opposite of you. If he knew you’d already “gotten laid” an hour before you met up with him, you’re sure he’d have a brain aneurysm. 

“I don’t need that,” yes, you actually do, “will you knock that off? It’s not like the world revolves around sex.” 

“Well, technically, without sex, kids wouldn’t be born and then you wouldn’t have new generations and the world would kinda come to a screeching halt for us.” 

“You realize that means recreational sex isn’t necessary for life, right? Why are you in my business with this anyway? Did you drag me out here to discuss my sex life?” 

“Or lack thereof.” 

“I’m not lacking in anything, so stop it or I will ditch you here and leave you with the bill.” 

“Yuu…” He pauses and stares at you with the one good eye and you’re feeling vulnerable for a moment. You don’t want him getting into your business, because you don’t want to risk the truth slipping out. Without Allen, you’re essentially a husk of a human, wandering around aimlessly. This is not a thing you want someone who actually still thinks you’re strong to see. “You’ve spent the last seven—.”

“Eight.” 

“—Eight years living with a man you claimed you hated. That’s not strange to you? What would it hurt to at least give one courtship a shot? You never know, you might find the perfect girl.” 

“Will you butt out? I don’t have any desire to find a woman to die on in a number of years anyway. Not to mention the idea of procreating makes me gag. If I chose to live with a beansprout, that’s my own business. It just so happens that we both share similar views on blending into society.” 

“In other words,” he starts and you’re immediately in defensive mode, “you can’t break yourself out of your comfort zone because you’d be going in blind. Both of you are pretty hopeless. What’s going to happen if Allen finds someone and decides he’s done dealing with you all the time? I’m pretty sure he could find someone who’d abuse him less.” 

That hurts. Your chest aches for a moment and you steel yourself to not show just how unsettled it makes you to hear something like that. No, you’re not good to Allen like you should be—but how are you supposed to fix it? You don’t know. Asking seems like such a foreign idea, because who can you ask? You can’t ask Allen, because he’ll say nothing’s wrong and you can’t ask the man in front of you. That would shatter the illusion. 

“Then I’ll cross that bridge when I get to it.” 

“You’re just going to wait? Come on, man. I know a chick who’d love a stone-cold asshole like you.” 

“What if I’m not interested in women, period?” You ask, because you can’t just outwardly speak it without knowing his reaction. A hypothetical is the best option and you watch his face contort into a different expression entirely. 

“What do you mean not interested in….you mean like interested in men? Men? Why would you be…” 

You instantly rescind your decision to seriously press the question, because the initial reaction is more than enough to decide it’s not worth the discussion in even the most hypothetical situations. “It was a joke, moron. Now, why don’t you spew some of your bullshit about your pregnant wife instead of invading my personal life?”

Lavi is a very easily distracted person and he’s already shifted topics and started going on about Lenalee—a thing you know he’ll always be happy to blather about forever. This is fine for you, because now you’re busy thinking. All of your thoughts are focused on Allen and the possibility that Allen could be taken from you if someone better managed to sink their claws into him. The two of you never expressed real claims to each other. Everything in your lives is assumed. 

You really wish you didn’t have to be such a complex puzzle—because you’re learning the hard way that putting a puzzle together without a clear picture is like randomly shoving the pieces in and finding out they’re all wrong. 

And you know at least some of the pieces are missing right now


	7. Chapter 7

You stand there watching him turn another bottle up and drain it and it makes you lean against the wooden doorframe. It’s been a month since the last time he arrived at this point and here he is again. This time, there are no anniversaries hanging over him, so you’re confused why he’s at this point where he needs to drown out thoughts. Even so, you don’t approach—you just watch from afar, staying close, but not close enough to be a target for him yet. 

Instead, you return to the kitchen and sit at the counter—leaving him just in sight for the time being. If you go toward the stairs, he’ll notice you and you’d rather wait until he’s already slammed himself so drunk he can’t formulate words. 

Why? 

Why is he doing this? You wonder, but you still have no answer. It doesn’t take a genius to figure out it can’t just be about Cross, but where do you go from that knowledge? Do you ask and hope he tells you, or do you stay silent because you selfishly fear that you’re the problem and you don’t want confirmation? Both answers feel wrong and it leaves you with your head in your hands, leaning over the table. You won’t cry for how distressed you are and you won’t scream either; but at the moment you almost feel like you could do both. 

Emotions have got to be your biggest enemy and it seems like lately—this last year—has been especially hard on them. Every other day you’re taking hits to your stability and you’re still running questions in your head that you can’t answer. Why is Allen like this? Why does it feel like there’s a strange distance now? What is wrong with you that makes you unable to open up to him, despite the fact that he’s naked and personal with you on a nightly basis? Why does he seem so scattered and yet more together than you are? 

And why can’t you think of a damned answer to one stupid question that you’re sure he’s already forgotten he asked. 

At a time like this, you’re travelling back and going over the instances that have taken place since and you’re trying to make a comparison—reaching for things to settle that question. What is it about this, that’s making it so complex? Anyone else would just answer with some description of a physical mark or a jaded relationship or something stupid like that, but you’re sitting here trying to pick apart at details so small you’ll need a microscope to analyze. 

What leaves a mark in you that remains even when you’ve settled your struggles? Sometimes you wonder if you’ve just convinced yourself that you’re over certain events in your life. You’re over your entire childhood and the loss of a friend. You’re over the long, hard struggle with a disabling addiction—or rather; at least you’re capable of keeping it monogamous. You’re over the hypocrisies and betrayals of the Black Order. 

All of these things are there, yes, but they don’t leave you this uncomfortable to think about. It’s more of a picture that you glance over than a scar, right? Or are you really just deluding yourself that hard? 

For some unknown reason, you feel like the answer to this question is literally a life changing thing and you can’t find it. With a body that doesn’t scar and being as emotionally crippled as you are, you have no personal definition and it feels like you should, like Allen was getting at something and you’ve missed it. 

You lose your focus when you feel his presence behind you and before you can even try to move, he’s got you pinned down to the table. His arms are planted palm-down on the table at each side of you and his chest is firmly against your back, forcing you to drop your body against the glass. How he’d managed to sneak up on you…you aren’t even able to fathom it. Thoughts had taken you so far away that his attention managed to find you and even corner you so you can’t escape without hurting him. 

“Kandaaa, why are you sitting in here alone?” His voice actually sends uncomfortable chills through you until you’re squirming to try and loosen up his hold. The claustrophobic feeling hit you like a sack of bricks and you open your mouth to protest; however, he’s already done hearing you talk. One of his hands breaks from the firm spot on the table and tracing across your neck until you’re almost certain he’s going to suddenly cut off your air supply at any moment—it reminds you of the first time he stooped to your level and held nothing back in ruining you like any of the rest of them. 

You should hate this. This should be making you scream at him and clamor away, because this is what you didn’t want and why you struggled so hard before, to overcome with him. He’s dragging you back and you’re not even fighting it, because you can’t. He’s pulling you out of the chair and dropping you to the hard floor—not caring that he almost cracks your jaw against the wood. 

His body is pressed flush over yours and you can feel the memory of those early days and it’s leaving you torn between wanting to protest and wanting to forget to care. He’s drunk enough that he’s doing this and you’re enough of a cheap whore to let him. 

Harsh breaths echo in your ear from him and he’s tearing at clothing between you and you know where this is going. That’s fine. It’s never been a problem and you’ll accept it if it’s what he wants. Though, it’s now that you realize just how much your body prefers his touch to be done in affection, not drunken anger. 

“I wish you’d love me, Kanda,” he slurs, but you’re not really sure if it’s the alcohol doing it or the effect of the sob that flows through the words. You can feel the liquid dropping by your face and onto the floor. He’s so distraught that he’s not even trying to fake happiness to disguise it and you realize at that moment just why. 

A tremble shakes you enough that you almost can’t control your own limbs—a numb feeling overtakes you and you just stare down at the polished floor and wonder how you’ve gone so wrong with him that he’s crashed like this. 

“I…” He chokes and his fingers dig into your skin until it almost hurts. “I wish I had the power to hate you,” he bites his words until they’re so harsh that they echo painfully in the cold room. “I want to hate you as much …as you hate me. Then maybe, letting go of you wouldn’t hurt this much.” 

Your head drops to the floor and you exhale a harsh sound, but you’re already deaf to anything else, because at this particular moment, you feel like everything that ever mattered in your life is breaking apart. 

You claimed you wouldn’t cry over this horribly heavy feeling that started the moment you realized what this evening was turning toward…

But apparently you lied


	8. Chapter 8

Those pale gray eyes haven’t made contact with yours since what happened last night and you’re pretty sure the reason has something to do with the haphazardly packed suitcase on the floor at your feet. You’re sitting on his bed, watching him toss his things into it and you’re trying so desperately to keep yourself from shaking, because you realize that he’s leaving. 

Whatever you did or didn’t do has finally pushed him until he can’t be in the same house as you anymore and he’s making no attempt to explain himself. He’s not making much of an attempt to even acknowledge you or what happened the night before in his drunken haze. Normally, that’s the first thing he does when he crosses the line; but this time, he’s unapologetic and you wonder what has changed this time. What were you supposed to do to amend this? This makes you honestly feel like you’re too stupid for human interaction, because you don’t know how to keep him where he is without aimlessly begging him. If he doesn’t want to stay, who are you to try and force him or guilt him? 

How can you be any more selfish than you’ve already been with him? It takes you back to what Lavi said and how Allen could find someone better than you. You’ve abused him in the form of neglect and it kills you because you’re blind and just don’t see that when you do it. If you told him you love him, would he stay? Or would he even believe you? 

You can’t just say something like that without fully understanding it and maybe it’s your fault for not explaining this to him. If he knew that you just haven’t deciphered that everything actually means, maybe he wouldn’t be slamming necessities into a leather case to leave you here by yourself—where you can stew in the bed you made. If you had been a little less cold and given back more than you had, Allen wouldn’t be so broken up about you. 

But…maybe this is good for him. Leaving you might give him a chance to live out the rest of his relatively short life in a way that doesn’t leave him lacking. What you can’t seem to give him, someone better maybe can. It kills you to think about. The thought is like a fresh knife wound and you wish for those days when such a cut would heal over before the blade was even fully removed. Now, you’re left with a gaping spot of vulnerability and a traumatizing paralysis that’s preventing you from holding him back like he’s as necessary as the air you breathe. 

He closes the suitcase and lifts it, standing in front of you. Finally, he meets your gaze—looking down at you with a haunted expression and you want to disappear from his sight. You’re the cause of his turmoil and you wish you knew the extent of it and just how long this has been something that had been eating at him. 

_ I wish you’d love me. _

They repeat in your head until it’s all you can hear, no matter what you’re thinking about. The very idea that he  _ wants _ to hate you makes you want to scream, because you don’t know how to combat that. You don’t know how to justify telling him that he shouldn’t hate you—you certainly don’t hate him if you’re this cracked about his obvious future departure. Can he see it though? 

No. He can’t. He can’t tell, past your frigid eyes, that you’re a cluttered mess who has no idea what to do with himself. It’s where you’ve failed at being any semblance of a partner to him. All you had to do was open up to him and you’ve failed that. You’re failing that at this very moment and your crippling fear is keeping you from saving this before it actually does walk out the door. 

You hate yourself so much right now that you almost feel faint. 

“I’m sorry, Kanda,” he whispers and there’s misery in his voice that you really just can’t even believe. The person who has been your strength has been holding out so long for you that he’s actually given up on feeling any return. How could someone that earnest and passionate actually love you?

…Love you so much that your lack of response has actually broken him down.

You’re paralyzed and you swear it feels colder than it is in this room. That could be the ice in your soul, though; because you really feel like you’re losing the only worthwhile thing that’s ever been part of you.

He turns and he’s leaving without another word and you let him. You  _ let _ him. Why are you letting him leave?  _ Why.  _

It claws at you until you twitch and can’t breathe. It’s a feeling so horrible that you think death was a preferable feeling to this. Unable to stand it, you slide off the bed and move at a staggering pace out of the room. Your legs feel so numb that it’s making your limbs tingle and you can’t function enough to actually catch him before his swift pace carries him down the stairs and out the front door of the home that the two of you have been living in together for seven years. 

The slam of the door is essentially a shotgun in your chest and you brace yourself against the stair rail. Your fingers tighten against the wood and it takes a long, very long, moment for your brain to catch up with the biggest mistake you’ve ever made in your life. You let the one person who meant the most to you—who saved you and protected you—and filled every aspect of your life…just walk out of that door without so much as a single word.

Your pride, your dignity, your…whatever it was that kept you from speaking, has taken away your other half—your better half.

Swallowing the lump in your throat is possibly the hardest thing at the moment—right next to breathing and you lean more of your weight into the rail until you’ve given up and you just slide down it, curling on the top step of the stairs—wishing you could vanish from existence long enough to erase everything that just went wrong. 

You’re almost certain that your body will hate you for your position—slumped uncomfortably against the rails—but you can’t move and you’ll deal with the physical consequences later when you can actually function properly. At the moment, your mind is shutting down and your body is following it. One of the reasons you’d never let yourself connect with people is precisely this reason.

…Because you just cannot handle the complications of being emotionally invested in someone to the point where they are a necessary piece of your life and you are far too stupid to maintain it like a proper partner should.

If you hated Allen as much as you hate yourself right now, this would have been a lot less life destroying than it is.


	9. Chapter 9

His bed feels cold, no matter how many days you’ve spent in it. The days have gone by in a blur, really, and you can’t even remember how long he’s been gone. The realization that he’s not just coming back is a hard hitting one and suddenly, nothing matters enough for you to get out of bed and the only reasons you have are directly related to your body’s needs. Even then, you haven’t eaten much since he’s been gone. It’s hard to have an appetite over the overwhelming sensation of self-loathing. 

All of the things you’ve done wrong or didn’t do at all have been floating in the forefront of your thoughts and you’re finally seeing pieces of the puzzle that weren’t available before. Allen is gone and you’re painfully vacant. He’s a monumental part of what you are and you really didn’t see just how much until now. 

There are swirls of emotions in you and you’re not sure which ones are most prevalent at the moment; but what you do know is the two ones that seem to circulate the most are loss and complete self-depreciation. At the point where Allen walked out, could you have said something to make him stay? Or was he already at that point of no return? It’s a question that leaves you with deep interweaving feelings of guilt and regret. 

Many things would be different if you had the power to go back and change them. Regret was one of those things that seemed to stick by you even when you’ve brushed the worst parts of your life aside. You regret many decisions in your life, but the one you regret the most is the one where you didn’t make a decision at all. 

You could have stopped him and you could have let everything free the moment your life was spiraling down, but you didn’t move and now you think you understand why you’re so dysfunctional. Despite everything he’s walked you through, you’re too afraid of regretting decisions you make. Your decisions in the past were what had sunk you to the level where you were almost beyond hope. Your decisions had left you with regrets that you can’t seem to wash away. Those are things you don’t want anymore and now you’re too afraid to take the risk, even though taking that risk has landed you in the middle of your biggest regret of all. No matter how you look at it, you’re wrong and it leaves you exhausted when you even try to think about it. 

It’s ironic to you, that it took you until he was walking out of your life to realize the answer to the question that had uprooted you so much. Now it had a bitter feeling behind it and you really wished you could erase every stupid moment of silence you’d given him and fill it with something, anything. You’d like to blame the people who made you, but you know ultimately, it’s your own fault you’re like this. You’ve done nothing to help yourself—instead, relying on him to understand you. 

But even body language isn’t enough. There were words he needed to hear that you failed to deliver and he can’t read your mind, so he didn’t know how much you struggle just being you. 

You roll over on the bed and stare at the little cracks of light coming in the window and it reminds you of when he was standing in the kitchen. Everything felt like it was supposed to then. The two of you were on a level where you coexisted like you were breathing in sync. Somewhere, everything turned upside down. 

Getting out of bed is possibly the most difficult thing, because you really don’t feel like you have a reason to do so, but you know at some point you have to eat and you need to try and clear the fog in your mind. 

The bed creaks as you shift off the edge and slowly inch your way to the bathroom that has traces of Allen all over it. This place still looks like two people living here, but now there’s only you. Sometimes, you hate that you can see, because it’s impossible to ignore all these things that bring him back to your mind. 

You brush your hair out of your face and it’s a tangled mess. You stopped caring at a point, because the only reason you haven’t hacked it off is because Allen had a thing for running his fingers through the long dark locks. Even now, you can’t cut your hair because of him and it’s baffling. He’s been gone for a month, you estimate, a painfully long month. The black locks around your face make the rest of your hollow face look even worse really and the mirror has no problem reflecting that harshly back at you. 

It smacks you with the truth so hard that your fist clenches and you slam it into the damnable glass until it splinters and breaks apart the reflection so you can’t see the whole picture without it fragmenting. The mirror is an enemy, because you can see yourself without Allen now and it’s the same person you saw back then before he saved you and back then when you relapsed and he saved you again. This time, however, he’s not here to rescue you. 

He’s also not here to have the answer you’ve been seeking and he’s not here to see you lose your mind over him. The scream that you emit is reminiscent of the one that used to shake the foundations of everything you knew when he first wiggled his way in your heart. 

Blood trails down your arm and you ignore it in favor of turning away from the mirror and sinking down the front of the cabinet, until you’re sitting on the bathroom floor in glass and specks of blood. You’ll let the red liquid seep until it closes on its own. You just wish you could do this for the massive hole in your heart. 

And in a painful revelation, you realize just how much you really do love him.


	10. Chapter 10

Another person steps into the room and you don’t react. You have stopped caring entirely at this point and you know for certain that those soft steps aren’t his anyway. There is a distinctive way that Allen moves that makes him easy to identify—or maybe that’s just the strong desire for him to return that’s making you consider these details. Whatever it may be, you know that it is not him moving into the room with you. The light tapping of those shoes and the easy breaths give away that the invader is a female—at least, you only know this because you know who that female is—since there aren’t very many who would visit you unannounced. 

Even this particular person hasn’t visited you in quite a while and you can’t say you’re all that broken up about it, when you can compare it to the loss of someone much more vital to your sanity. 

“Kanda?” Her voice confirms her and you grunt to at least let her know that you’re alive. At the moment, you are face down in Allen’s bed, wearing his slacks and nothing else. Your long hair is spilling off the bed and you don’t really care what it looks like anymore. Somehow, you’re still hanging on to the hope that Allen returns. Many times you’ve considered tracking him down, but the fear that he would come back—while you were looking for him—and assume you’d moved on, was too much to allow you to leave. 

Shuffling at your left gives away her position and you know she’s picking up things you’ve dropped or broken in the moments where your loneliness struck you and crippled you hardest. “I’m surprised you still live here.” She’s placing those things back on the desk and trying to figure out where to start in speaking to you. It’s really not easy talking to you most all the time, but especially when you’re very clearly done with the world and everything in it. 

You say nothing, because you feel like there’s nothing to really add to this yet. She’s come to check on you, you know this from how she makes it her business to brush her hand down your back—gauging your temperature through skin—in case you’ve come down with a sickness that you haven’t been able to pick yourself up from. You’re not sick though, at least not where your body is concerned. All of your sickness is in your mind where you feel like you’re dying and would do anything to make the heavy, unpleasant feelings go away. Sleeping has become such a chore, yet such an escape and your lack of consistently doing it is making you look faded. It’s no wonder one might assume you’re ill. 

“I heard that Allen left here a while ago,” she starts and you want to roll up under the sheets and pretend that she doesn’t exist anymore. It’s like a fresh stab to the chest, when one of the first things she brings up is Allen. “Kanda, maybe it’s time you move on too? You—.” 

“I don’t want a damn wife,” you snap before the topic can even begin. You don’t want to hear this again. Not right now. Not ever, really. There’s no hope for you to ever get over Allen enough to even consider it. 

“You need someone to give life back to you and make you leave this fog you’re in. Do you know how much mail is outside your door? I’ve tried to send letters to you, but they are all outside. Have you left this house at all? I came here because I was afraid you died and with Allen gone, no one would have known. It scares me, you know.” Her concern is flattering, really, but it all feels like a hollow hope. By now, they should know that you will never find someone that will earn the right to share the broken soul you have. Only one person can have that and he’s been absent from your life for six months now. 

“Then let me die in this damned house,” you exhale and try not to get angry when she sits down on the bed next to you. 

“Are you just going to wait until he decides to come back to you?” She asks out of the blue and your eyes shoot open. “What will you do if he’s moved on to start a fresh new life and begin a family, without you?” 

Painful words, is what these are to you and you realize you’re failing tremendously at not showing how devastated that idea is to you. You’re not sure you’d want to know if he’s happy without you. You’ve already come to terms with the fact that you love him almost obsessively, but you don’t think your heart can handle being broken anymore, even if it means his happiness. 

“I guess I’d just save you all the trouble of concerning yourselves… with me and kill myself,” you answer so honestly that it almost chokes you half way through the statement. It almost comes out sounding like a half-assed joke though—of all times for it to sound like that…

This answer surprises her and you can feel it in the jolt of her fingers on your back. You assume she already knows that you’re more than ‘friends’ with Allen and you don’t care to pussyfoot around his impact on your life—whether she understands your seriousness or not. 

“Kanda…I…,” she catches her breath and dread builds up in you until you know exactly what she’s going to say. God, you’ve never been so utterly distraught in your life and it takes everything not to just thrash furiously at anything and everything when the next words that come out of her mouth are: “I’ve been in partial contact with him over the Winter…He’s getting married in spring…” 

If you thought you felt miserable before, you don’t even know what to call this ungodly burning that’s eating you alive right now.


	11. Chapter 11

You lay back and stare at the ceiling for the millionth time, probably. The majority of your days are going this way, but you really have nothing else you want to accomplish and you know you don’t have the mental strength to do much of anything even if you did. This is a truly pathetic state you’ve succumbed to, but you suppose you reap what you sow. 

Even though you’ve been horribly destructive lately—in random spurts that come when your thoughts go back to Allen—the house is genuinely pristine. Everything you break is thrown out, fixed, or set in a place for later repair. You don’t know why you’re taking this action, because there’s no one in this house to appreciate how clean it is, but you. This is the one thing you actually manage to do each day, so you suppose it’s good for now—even if you’re the one responsible for breaking things. 

There’s not an unbroken mirror in the house, you’re fairly certain. Your knuckles are always wrapped and starting to show marks of repeated abuse into whatever object pisses you off enough to make you slam your fist into it. You learned the hard way that it’s not as easy to get blood out of brick, but you don’t think you care all too much if it shows a little. You’re the only one who’s looking at the marks. 

The fact that you’re still here to look at those marks amazes you, though. This house should have suffocated you to death and you’ve been toying with the idea for a long time…However, it’s that damned beansprout that’s kept you from doing what you said you would. Even though he’s out of your life, he’s still so important to you and you’d never want him to learn about your death from such a method. You never want to risk him blaming himself for your stupidity—and you know he would. That’s just who he is. 

It’s who he is…with someone else now. Damn, that hurts. It hurts in ways you didn’t think you could hurt and you realize, for all your outward show, you’re more fragile than anyone. Bouncing back doesn’t seem like a possibility and you’ve just come to the conclusion that you’ll probably waste away in the house that isn’t a home without him. 

This is your life. It’s almost surreal to think of it like this, because you remember back to the days when your life was fighting and travelling and not this. Back then, you had no place to call home and you suppose you don’t know anymore either. This is just a house that you stay in because you can’t be bothered to impose yourself on someone else. 

The crazy part has to be that you haven’t even considered doing what had gotten you involved with him to begin with. It’s been ten months since he left and you’ve not once sought out another human for the physical contact your body had needed like an addiction at one point. Allen had shattered that right out of you and part of you truly thanks him, while part of you hates what it took to arrive at this. You’d rather have that crippling addiction than this emptiness. 

By now, he’s probably already married, and you’re stewing in the very idea of that. It will never leave you without a bitter taste in your mouth and you don’t know how you can even think anymore without wanting to tear everything in sight to pieces. You know he loved you, but had your apparent dispassion made him hate you or was he just forcing himself to get over you so that he’d live the rest of his life with someone who actually can show him the affection he needs? The answer doesn’t really matter. 

You lean forward and hang your head. The way your hair falls forward still feels foreign. The long black locks had been part of you for so long that it’s an anomaly for your hair to barely drop past your chin. In a fit of distraught grief—that very night she had visited you—you had cut most of it off and left the bound collection of strands on his bed. You haven’t been back in his room since then. It’s too much to bear. 

Actually, you haven’t been upstairs since then. Sleeping on the couch had become a thing and you had stopped caring if it was good for you. Health had been the last thing on your mind when you already felt dead. 

So you stare at the ceiling again. For another long stretch, this continues and you don’t even notice the way the sun’s light changes direction as time slips away. What you do notice is someone fiddling with the door. You don’t get up and you don’t care if they get in. Judging by the way it’s being expertly picked and turned in just a particular way, you already know it’s Lavi. You’ve long since determined that only two people will ever care to visit you and that’s mostly because you’re scaring them with your self destructive behavior. 

“Yuu?” His voice calls into the house and you don’t even bother to answer. He’ll find you once he’s managed to get the chain off the door and slip in. No matter how many times you lock it, he keeps getting in. His damnable wife had made certain that he was checked up on more often—though he’d been able to avoid it for a month or so now, by pretending he wasn’t there when he was. Lavi seems to have caught on, however. “I know you’re here, Yuu. Please tell me you’re not dead.” 

You still don’t answer. Let him wonder.

There’s a crack and the past part of you wants to scream at him for breaking the door chain, but the you that you’ve become just doesn’t care. 

“Hey, come on, man, don’t give me the silent treatment, where are y—…Ah…” He makes it into the room and you’re actually right there. There’s no searching for you once he’s stepped just past that small entry space—it’s really hard not to see you. “There you are…Jesus Christ, you look like shit.” 

“Thanks,” you snap dryly and manage the weakest glare you can muster. “If you’re done gawking at me, you can get the fuck out.” 

“Yuu…dude…let me cook something for you,” he shakes his head, ignoring you entirely and you knew he would do just that. “You look like you’re going to starve to death.” 

At this point, you just hate everything and it’s not because you’re mad. It’s because you’re so disappointed in yourself that it really is like being slapped in the face with a splintered board. This long stretch of time should have healed something. The last events always seemed to heal right over and leave you able to function without it affecting you in any way; but this regret is nothing, if not a scar that’s leaving its impression across every section of your heart. 

You are obsessing and it’s infuriating. Just like many years before, you’ve lost your power to make choices. You can’t even choose to make yourself move past him, when it’s your fault he left to begin with. 

“I wish you people would just let me die alone in this house already,” you mutter and try to ignore that _look_ he gives you. The one where you know he can see the splinters in your heart.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Intense Themes in this one, Suicidal behavior. Please be aware.

From what you understand, today is supposed to be the day of Allen's wedding. A part of you really hoped that it had already passed and you wouldn’t have ever known the exact date, but you do. You're painfully aware of what today is and it makes you curse at everything, especially the idiot who told you--the moron who was too blind to see that this was a major problem to your sanity. It still amazes you how someone so brilliant can be so oblivious, but maybe Lavi really has no idea that what's going on isn't just you having personal issues. Well, they are personal issues now, but they have everything to do with the relationship you don't have with Allen anymore.   
  
At times like these, you wish you could just blank out your mind and pretend that the problem doesn't have a place in your life--you tried that once with Alma, and it almost worked...except for Allen breaking through. What a horrible power he has; to command your emotions like he does. It's horrible enough to have you standing over the dresser staring down at the only weapon you have still in the house.   
  
The perfectly kept pistol was a memoir of Cross's. The last shot it ever took was the one that saved your life and you find it horrifically ironic that the first shot it would take since then would be taking your life away.   
  
At this point, you can't handle it. Every day is a fight to simply breathe without screaming until you pass out. With Allen's ties to someone else, every hope of your life righting itself is pretty much gone. You feel so pathetic here, staring down at a weapon with a single bullet loaded in it and preparing yourself to put a permanent stop to this sense of loss. If the others could see you now...they wouldn't believe it was you. They wouldn't believe that Kanda Yuu was this spineless person that is hunched over a dead man's gun--leaving drops of water to pepper the polished wood from where he refuses to stop them before they slide off his face.   
  
You barely believe this is you. The broken mirror in front of you leaves fragmented evidence of it, however. That is undeniably your face--even if it's a bit sunken in and your eyes look bruised from how dark the circles under them have gotten. This is the end result of years of doing everything wrong. A little part of you wants to run to Allen and protest everything until you turn blue in the face, but you know that you have no right.   
  
You had your chance and you know that you ignored his needs for so long that it was likely he really did learn to hate you. What a horrible twist of fate.   
  
Your hands are trembling just a bit as they curl around the ornate pistol and lift it from the table. You've been down the road of death so many times, but you know you're down to the last. This would be permanent this time. It terrifies you, but leaves you yearning for the silence from the constant screams in your head. You can fix this pain. Without him, you're nothing and you don't want to be something if he's not by you. It makes you cringe to even think like this, because where was all of this conviction before when he was right here?   
  
You hate your inabilities enough to drive you down this path and you're clutching the damned weapon in your hands. The pull of the trigger will be the last you'll have to think about all the regrets you have; and you have so many of them right now. Almost all of them are about him.   
  
You never spoke the three fucking words that might have made him stay. You never initiated affection for the sake of it. You never comforted him when he needed it. You let him walk away without a word. You've become obsessed and you still do nothing about it.   
  
Sucking in a harsh breath, you lean on your elbows and twist that weapon in your hands until it's pointed right at you and you know all you have to do is push that mechanical part with your thumb and it's over. You can visualize the sound of it going off and the way it would feel, recoiling in your hands. Then again, you probably wouldn't feel the recoil, truly and the sound would likely cut off so sharply it would be like you never heard it at all. 

The cold metal against your face is really cutting straight into you and you feel like you could vomit at any minute. The way your stomach flips is uncomfortable and you can’t understand how you can be this conflicted. There are tremors in your hands and it’s making you nervous. This is what you wanted to do, right? So why are you feeling like your entire body is being cut open and you’re being exposed in all the worst ways? The breath is nearly sucked out of you just from this. A tug of war seems to be going on between what your brain wants and what your heart wants and logically, you know that they’re all the same—but there is no way you’re feeling these from the same sources. The you from the past wouldn’t have batted an eyelash at this. 

The you from the past would have done it with without a second’s hesitation. Here, though, you are torn up until you actually have to close your eyes and lean forward to breathe just enough to function. The pistol in your hands feels like the heaviest thing—next to your guilt. The guilt seems to overpower everything and your head is throbbing hard enough that you’re seeing spots. 

This is what you want. You want freedom from every mistake you can’t take back and you just need to stop from wasting your time waiting for it to come the other way. It’ll ease your burden from others at the same time. So why can’t you pull it? 

_ Pull the fucking trigger.  _

_ If you’re going to be a spineless shit, the least you can do is be spineless the right way.  _

You’re all but screaming at yourself and you would be if you had the energy to do so. Instead, you’re berating yourself in your head until you can’t make sense of your thoughts. Every way that you try to reason with why you should just alleviate this is completely shattered by a random memory of  _ him _ . 

You want to put a bullet in your head and then your memories trickle over how he used to wake you up in the morning by scooping you up in his arms and squeezing you until you threw a fit. You beg to be put out of your misery, and you’re seeing his smile when you finally wore the damned suit he wanted you in so badly. You can’t breathe and all you can feel is his breath on your neck, leaving marks in your skin. 

The sharp stab to your heart makes you drop the pistol and it hits the table with a dull thud. Though the sound is muffled, it’s louder than you imagined the gunshot would have been. It startles you enough to snap you out of the haze you’re in and you stare down at it—vision so blurred you can barely make out the details of it. All you know is that you’re hunched over it, leaning on your arms and trying not to scream. Part of you is failing that part, however, because you’re already screaming to some capacity. Every nerve in your body is on fire and you just wish it could stop. It’s consuming you and you’re so fucking tired that your legs give out and you slide down the front of the dresser. 

Heavy panting is the only sound in the house and you can’t even hear that. All you can hear is the emptiness and it’s killing you more than a gun ever could. 

And you know, you always knew, that you couldn’t pull that trigger. Allen’s memory would never allow you to do it. He suffered in silence for eight years, dealing with your shit and you can’t handle a year of his absence? 

You deserve to suffer. You deserve the sorrow you inflicted on him. After everything he did for you…

Yet, you still feel so conflicted. You can’t function with him gone and you can’t erase his existence— or your own. Not to mention, what an insult you could put upon the legacy of the man who saved your life, by using his gun. You are a horrible person no matter how you view it and you wish it would all just stop. 

Silently, you stare into the wood of the dresser –leaning against it like your body can’t move. It takes once, or twice, of you banging your head against the flat face of the drawer to feel the pain and it feels like something you deserve. It’s the first feeling you have that isn’t unfamiliar and wrecking your mentality up until you feel like drowning yourself in a bathtub. 

Even so, it’s not enough and you can’t shake everything that’s wrong. A year. He left you a year ago and you haven’t stopped waiting, obsessing and praying to every god that you don’t believe in to bring him back to you. 

For the first time in your life, you recognize the screams that finally do fall out as the only form of crying you know. Accompanied by the constant flow of tears, you just scream until you’re light-headed and can’t sit up anymore. With a last heavy breath, you slump over and hit the floor without even trying to stop yourself. You’ve lost your mind, completely. 

_ Please stop…  _

_ Please… _

You just stare up at a world that doesn’t stop blurring and you feel yourself slipping a bit. Your body can’t handle this stress and you’re close to fainting again. How many times will you do this before you die of grief? Too many, you’re sure. 

“Let me let go of you,” you whisper hoarsely, to no one but yourself. You’re already crazy, so what does it matter if you’re talking to people who aren’t there. “Please…I’m sorry,” you strain to even make sounds, laying on the floor half-unconscious from your own devices. “ _ I…love you…I’m sorry _ …”


	13. Chapter 13

You’re not really sure how long you had been there before you managed to pick yourself up, but you know you were there for a while. The uncomfortable position you woke up in gave you enough evidence to support that claim. Lying on the floor in Allen’s bedroom wasn’t going to accomplish much, though. That and the overwhelming sensations of him were still present in the room. So you’re here, downstairs again—too tired to do more than collapse on to the first piece of furniture that could support you. You feel like you’re burning. The room, you know, isn’t hot, but it feels uncomfortably hot at the moment. 

There’s rain pounding at the ceiling of your house and you let it soak into your mind, because it’s a welcome distraction from the other noises creeping into your brain. Silence and your own restlessness are driving you crazy, if that isn’t obvious enough. The rain is a steady, soothing sound that drowns the self-loathing furiousness and turns it into a melancholy daze—leaving you staring out the half opened window. 

You don’t remember when you opened that window, but you’re glad you did; because the way the wind is blowing is bringing the water in and you can feel a mist over your skin. It’s the most relieving feeling you’ve had in a while and you want to relish in it while you can—before your thoughts turn dark again. 

The fight you had with yourself upstairs has revealed something about you that you’re not sure you’re uncomfortable with. It’s shown you that you’re handicapped from helping yourself even when it’s absolutely urgent. This, you suppose, is the result of being raised for the sole purpose of being a war machine. Spending your life being directed in every action has left you missing important social skills that you need in life outside of waging war. You hate those scientist bastards for this, sometimes. If you had been normal, perhaps you might have had an easier time understanding the feelings that have been present all along. 

At the moment, you imagine that the heat on your skin is Allen’s warmth and it’s making it more bearable—yet unbearable at the same time. If you convince yourself that you’re dreaming this nightmare, maybe you can just continue to trek through life until you finally just stop moving all together. This isn’t exactly acceptance, but rather delusion. It makes you sick, ultimately. 

Even if you want to use this method, you know it’s never going to last long; because your thoughts will always turn away from the pleasant comfort of his memories, to the painful realization that he’s sharing new—better—memories with someone new. Perhaps this someone can give him everything he needs. Maybe she will carry less baggage and he’ll be able to have everything he wants. You want to feel happy for him. 

But you don’t. 

It’s not fair, you know it; but you’re not giving enough to be fair about it. You already know that you’ve lost, so there’s no reason to fake pleasantries over it. All you can ask from the god, who doesn’t seem to care about your repentance, is that you never have to see what you could have had. If you were to see Allen with someone else, happy and regretless, you think you might actually die of a broken heart—though, maybe that’s a bonus. 

It’s hard to believe it’s actually been an entire year. Those twelve months seemed to have passed by you in a blur. This seems much like a really long nightmare and you’re laying there, covered in sweat and breathing heavy, hoping to wake from it and roll over into Allen’s body. 

God, if that had been the case, you’re pretty sure you’d have cried all over him just in relief alone. Absently, you remember the way his body felt against yours and you close your eyes. His skin was warm after he’d snuggled up to you and thieved your body heat—giving it back and settling this vortex of comfort between you. One of his arms always managed to snake under your back and you didn’t mind that all too much because you’d turn on your side and his arm would settle in the right place. The soft, fine locks of his hair would messily fluff against your face and it never bothered you—your contrasting hair would climb all across his neck and shoulders, so it was okay. 

Now that you think about it, it’s somewhat amusing in a horrible gut-wrenching sort of way. You lay here on the couch staring out the window with the same expression you saw on Allen’s face when he was drunk and drowning himself with the liquor you hated so much. And suddenly, you want to do the same, just to forget that you ever told him you hated any part of him and that you never corrected him when he snapped back at you. 

You wonder a lot of things now. What would he say if he saw you like this? How would he react to the fact that Cross’s gun is sitting on a desk with your blood tracing down the front of it, from where you kept banging your head against the wood? How would he react to the long bundle of your hair that you left in his room—hacked away to sever yourself from the things about you that Allen liked?

What would he do if you told him you love him enough to deteriorate to this point? 

The biggest fear in you is that he’s already so beyond caring about you that you’ll never know the answers to these questions for his lack of having intent to return in any fashion. The house that was both of yours, was now bordering on abandoned property.

That’s fine, though. Let people think that this house is empty. No one bothers you anymore—with exception to a red-headed moron and his overly-sympathetic wife; and those two were bound to stop showing up if he started shoving short replies back via the post. 

_I should go do that_ , you think to yourself as your mind trails over the usual thoughts you have in a day. If you clean up your doorstep and make better efforts to look like you leave the house, they’ll stop concerning themselves with you. It sounds terrible and that’s probably because it is. 

Sliding off the couch, you realize just how heavy you feel and you’re not sure where this came from. The lurching in your stomach doesn’t hit you until you’re already standing and you really feel like you’ve been run like a racehorse—body weak and feeling like you’re in a half-asleep daze. 

With a graceless wobble, you careen forward and attempt to catch yourself on the table. It’s not until your arm has a solid hold that you realize you’re not going to bounce back from this little failure in walking. It’s taking everything in you to keep yourself upright at the moment. Your muscles twitch and strain and your head is beginning to pound until you can hear the drumming of your heart like a hammer against your skull. The suffocating temperature of your body is making everything blur again and you realize at the last moment that you’ve managed to get yourself sick enough to drop you to the floor once your arm gives out. 

The cold floor greets you and your connection with consciousness slowly fizzles out and you’re much more grateful for oblivion than you should be.


	14. Chapter 14

You hear a voice. It’s a well defined voice and it leaves you with disgruntled feelings in your body—even though you seem to have no control over any part of you at the moment, all you know is what sounds manage to come to your ears. Your limbs feel so heavy and your eyes won’t open—and even when you manage to crack them open, what you see is just a world of blur and it hurts like knives into your brain. Everything feels so bright, even through your closed eyes, and you want to move and roll over; but your body isn’t responding. 

There’s sweat all along your skin and it’s making you feel like you’re burning up—lying in a stagnating haze. You can’t breathe, or at least you feel like you can’t. Somehow, air must be getting into your lungs if you’re able to still think as you are—albeit not very clearly. Still, you can make sense of the most basic of things. You can hear the annoying voice digging through your semi-consciousness and you know it’s Lavi. Of course. 

The last thing that happened before this moment is a fragmented piece of memory that you can’t bring back, so you’re not sure why he’s here—or why he’s leaning over you. There’s a pause and you can feel skin on your own skin and pressure at your chest. It doesn’t make sense. You’re so clouded that you really can’t fathom why Lavi’s voice sounds urgent—echoing in your head until it sounds like he’s on both sides of you. You hate his voice, you really do—at least right now you do. You just want to sleep. So what is the problem? 

Why does he keep yelling at you and why can’t you understand the words? If you could push him away, you already would have done so, but you can’t make your body move, even though you’re begging it to. The screaming in your own head is more than enough, you don’t need his to top it off and you just want to be lost in the peaceful silence of whatever is taking you at the moment. 

There’s a crack and it sounds crystal clear, suddenly. Following it is a painfully sharp sensation through your abdomen and you finally manage to make the first hint of sounds—letting out a hollow, low grunt. It hurts and you want to thrash at him for it. Another annoyed sound prepares to spill, but you’re cut off by a mouth over your own. A twitch snakes through your limbs and you suddenly understand what’s going on when air spills into your lungs. 

You really aren’t breathing. He’s breathing for you. 

For a brief second, you want to stop him. You want to reach out and push him away and let yourself just shut down—because that place that you were at felt so calming. You can’t though, because when you manage to crack your eyes open again—eyes blurry and unfocused—you see his red-hair blurring into white and your mind is making you see _him_. He, who is the one responsible for you surviving until this point, is actually overtaking Lavi’s form and you want to cry again. 

“Shit, shit, Yuu! Hang in there!” You hear Lavi’s voice before another lungful of air is pushed into your body. Vaguely, you come to an understanding that he’s been compressing your chest too—and you assume that’s where the loud cracking noise had come from. Are you really this close to gone that this urgency is necessary? That’s a terrifying concept, because you really had no idea your health was at this low. The only thing that you thought really had a grip on you was the deterioration of your mind. 

At this point, you’re not actually sure if you’re conscious or not. It feels like a hallucination the more you lay there and feel your body being revived. You’re being drawn back into a world where you feel like you have nothing left—while being tortured with images of him in your vision. 

Lavi’s mouth is moving, that much you’re aware—and the hard pushing against your chest stops and the man backs away. He’s talking and you’re just tuning him out. The passage of time makes no sense to you and you don’t exactly understand how you can be awake while you’re being resuscitated or how you’re aware of anything when you should be unconscious. Your body was never normal anyway, so maybe that’s the reason why you’re losing touch with what reality actually means. 

The other body is set away from you and you’re acutely aware of breathing on your own now—heart beating without your chest being crushed down anymore. You don’t feel good about it, though. There’s emptiness pouring back into you because your vision is still filling your head with delusions that Lavi is Allen and while you’re sort of awake, you’re really barely hanging on. 

The white hair that should be brushing across Allen’s face are really just the red locks that Lavi’s let from his bandana in his haste to get to you before you died in the middle of the floor. You wish it was really Allen, though. Even now, already submitted to the fact that he can never be yours again, you wish it was him. You just want to see him again. The way he left had been burning into your soul until you just wanted to see him smile one more time before you finally gave up and let the earth have you back—because there’s no chance of heaven and hell being real, if God didn’t even have the decency to ease your suffering after all you fought for. 

He lifts your body until your upper body is half off the floor and leaned against him. He’s trying to move you to a better location, but you’re really just dead weight at the moment. In this moment, brief as it is, you manage to look up and try to clear Allen out enough to see Lavi. You can hear Lavi’s voice, but it’s still Allen you see. With a struggle, you turn your head into Lavi’s shoulder as he lifts you and you struggle to breathe again. The pain in your body is magnified by this position and he’s trying to hurry to move you so it doesn’t prolong. 

You don’t feel that though. The sharp twisting pain is pushed into the back of your mind and you bear with it until he’s managed to get you at least up on the couch and off the floor. 

“Yuu? Are you in there?’ His voice reaches you like a distant crackle—breaking into barely decipherable syllables. 

Mutters and weak attempts to form words leave you struggling for a moment, before you finally just suck in a breath and let out a long unbearable cry. You just have to remind yourself you can make sounds and the guttural noises you manage to make, loosen up your throat enough for you to croak out the only thing you can even try to speak before you lose consciousness again. 

“I…don’t care…if hallucination…” You whisper, struggling just to breathe. “Just…humor me. Please,” you plead and hope he’s not too stupid to get it. “Just…Allen…I…” Fear creeps into you and you’re so terrified that you can’t even say it to a hallucination. It’s not Allen and your mind knows it, but you need to speak the words so someone can hear and then maybe you won’t live with the regret of never saying it at all. “I’m…I’m sorry. So…Sorry... Th..thank you...” Your vision dims and you’re fading out again, but it’s okay because you at least tried to speak and perhaps this is a person who can pass this along if he can’t bring you back again. “…for loving me.”


	15. Chapter 15

There’s a hand in yours, you recognize immediately as you stir back awake. Instantly, you’re a bit disappointed that you’ve woken up to begin with, but you’re also incredibly annoyed that this little bastard has the nerve to hold your hand after he witnessed you crumbling in his arms. You never wanted to be that close to him anyway. You suppose he could be called a friend, but you like to keep ‘friends’ out of your most vulnerable moments—which you completely failed at here. 

Your fingers curl in the man’s grip and you pull your hand away weakly, but your lack of strength doesn’t make you able to remove your hand from his. One long huff of air lets free to express your frustrations and you turn your head in the opposite direction of where he is. You don’t want to look at him. The response you get alerts you that he’s aware of your awakening too and it’s all too humiliating to confront right away. You openly confessed something to him that will probably change his opinion of you and you don’t want to deal with that. 

Surely, it’s no secret that you’re not interested in women, but you’re almost certain that Lavi believes that lack of interest goes across all sexes—and that you’re some kind of anti-human, anti-sexual, stone wall of a person. The reality is, you’re hopelessly dedicated to a man—a friend, no less. It takes you back to that particular time where you told him you were joking—yet you really weren’t. The strange thing is, you don’t care if he has a problem with it…you care that you’ll have Allen’s current situation in life shoved in your face; as if it’s obvious that you’re the only one who really feels this way. 

Of course, at the moment, you are. Now you remember why not breathing felt better than this. At least when you weren’t breathing, you didn’t have to feel the heavy pull in your chest from the anxiety of knowing your life is fucked up beyond repair. Now, you have this on top of the cracked bone somewhere in your body. Great. 

You shift and pull your hand again, but the other hand holds yours tighter and now you’re getting mad enough to want to start hissing. You’d do just that if you could react with that precision, but you can barely function and your vision is still as botched up as before. If you look at him and you still see Allen, you might just lose your shit completely. So you keep your head turned and you stay silent—waiting for him to finally give up and let you go. Lavi’s not the type to wait on you and you’re losing your patience for this personal space invasion. It’s bad enough he found you to begin with. 

“Let go of me, Lavi.” 

“I would, if I was Lavi.” 

The soft voice that comes, where you were expecting the aloof goofy one, nearly jars you out of your senses—what little senses you’ve managed to maintain at this time. Those syllables trickle out in a slight flair and leaves warmth crawling into your chest where you didn’t think you could feel that again. Your mind is being so fucking cruel to you to do that and you just want to snatch your hand away and crawl off the other side of the bed that you’ve apparently been placed in since you had fallen into unconsciousness the last time. 

Hesitantly, you turn your head to try and make out the person who apparently isn’t Lavi. You see white first, then the softer face to go with the image that’s been popping up in your head for months. The same blurry thing you saw when Lavi was pounding life back into your dying body. It hurts again, the warmth draining until you’re just clinging to any semblance of sanity you have. 

“Why are you doing this to me?” You whisper coarsely and draw your vision away. You don’t care if you sound crazy, because you are crazy anyway. He’s haunting you to the point where you’re ready to delude yourself into believing it really is him. 

“What am I doing to you?” The whisper comes back low—low enough that it’s hard to discern a tone. 

You don’t answer, because anything you say will sound as unfair as you feel it in your mind. What right do you have to blame him for what’s going on in your head? Even to another person, you can’t actually speak such a thing. If you ever had dignity in your life, you at least want it here where you can refrain from placing any semblance of blame on him for your own shortcomings. 

“I don’t know…who you are.” You start and close your eyes so you don’t have to see. “But please leave.” 

It’s the only way you can take away the immediate feelings that spring up when another person is in the room with you. Your brain immediately turns them into what you want to see and not what you actually see. This is going to do nothing but turn you into something unbearable for anyone who happens to cross your path—even though it’s not your fault this moron decided to come into your house and pick you up off the floor. He should have left you. 

“I’m not leaving, Kanda. If I do, you’ll die.” 

“Then let me.” 

The other body moves and for a split second you think they finally got the hint and decided to leave you to stew in your own sickness. However, the shifting on the bed tells you they didn’t do that. They merely moved to be closer; making you itch to move more away from them. You hate people, you decide. You don’t want to be in contact with another human again. The most unfortunate thing is that Lavi was never very good at taking the hint; neither is whoever is currently climbing across the mattress to get close to you. 

If you had any strength in you, you might have pushed them away and maybe even kicked them off the bed, but all you can do is make the light hissing noise that you do. You feel arms snaking around your body and lifting you from your reclined place on the bed. The intense anxiety welling up in you wants to lash out in any form you can, because you know these arms and the way that they move up your back and draw you in close. He pulls you close to him and you can feel his heart beating in his chest next to yours. The soft wisps of hair at your cheek are teasing your memories and you swear you can’t discern fantasy from reality. 

This man adjusts himself until he’s positioned so you lay against him. One disfigured hand brushes across your face and wipes back the line of wetness you hadn’t realized was there. It’s a pointless gesture, though, because you feel a drop of water splash against your cheek from the figure leaning just over you. Here is where your mind starts to piece together the truth and your vision starts to become clearer as you rouse from the hazy state you were in. 

“I’m sorry, Kanda…” He whispers to you, his breaths coming at an uneven pace as his arms squeeze tightly around you. “I didn’t mean to do this to you…I’m…” You can see the way the muscles in his jaw tense and he bites his tongue for just a moment—trying to find any words to say to you. “I’m here…I…” 

You don’t want words right now, because your mind is exhausted. For a brief moment in time, you feel comforted enough to not feel crushed by your own misery. By a small fortune, he’s here and you’re not dead yet—at least you don’t think you are. 

“S..stop,” you beg silently, curling one hand in the fabric of his suit. “Just…pretend you still love me for a little while.”


	16. Chapter 16

The light pours into the room and the warm rays manage to stir you back to life. With a deep breath, you force yourself to open your eyes and face the possibility that whatever you remember is just a dream and you’re alone again. This might explain how you’re alone in the middle of the bed. By now, you’re learning to repress the outbursts of frustration, but that still hasn't stopped the slow curling grief that works its way to your face—until you’re wiping your face clean again. 

At least you know that you’re alive again. The dream-like haze is gone and you can see everything clearly and hear just fine. The deteriorated state you were in has passed and you’ve been effectively nursed back to health enough to be considered safe—though it’s very clear that you won’t be running any marathons for a while. You shift in place a bit and you can feel that the bandages are still in place around your chest—there to keep you from upsetting the broken rib you obtained by the klutz who put too much pressure on your chest. The pain is nothing you can’t deal with though and you’re able to sit up enough to lean back against the headboard of the bed. 

The window is open and you’re taking in the fresh day that you’ve woken on. It seems to still be early in the day and it’s clear for a change. The way the wind comes through makes everything feel fresh. You almost lose yourself in the way this feels—as close to a meditative state as you’ve been able to achieve in a while. For a few minutes, you need to clear your head of all thoughts and try to prepare yourself for the possible hell that may greet you. 

You wish it didn’t feel this way—sitting there on the edge and praying that you didn’t fall off. You’re still clinging to the little hopes. Without them, you’re sure you’d have pulled that trigger. Absently, you wonder what would have happened if you had. Whoever may have found you…how would they have responded? How would he have responded? 

“Good morning.” 

All your thoughts shatter and your head turns quick enough to strike you with vertigo until you have to close your eyes and hold your head so the spinning can stop. You struggle to get your bearings before you feel the hand on your back. It’s a warm feeling and you’re acutely aware of the presence of the other person now. With a moment of focusing, you’re able to look up at him. 

The first thing you make contact with is a pair of pale gray eyes—soft, but reflecting the same misery you’ve been staring at in your own reflection. There’s something beyond that, though. It’s deep in the way his expression changes for you. He’s looking through the storm cloud brewing between you and he’s seeing you. It’s almost indiscernible, but you see something precious there; something you want to reach out and hold to. 

“Beansprout…” You whisper to him, just watching him for a moment. You just want to take in that he’s really there; that you’re not dreaming, hallucinating or dead. It’s been a year and you’ve not seen him at all and now he’s right here next to you. The part of you that you hated before is boiling back up and you have no idea what to say. Your lip trembles as you struggle and try to make sounds that resemble speech. What do you say? How can you even begin to express the things you want, when you have no idea if you even can? 

“How are you feeling?” He fills the silence instead, and moves to set a drink on the small table by the bed. “You weren’t doing so well a few days ago. But I’ve been here to make sure you don’t die on us.” 

The choice of words feels so formal to you, really. He’s making this impersonal and it hurts a bit, but you suck it down and try to keep yourself as impassive as possible. Perhaps you were just imagining what had taken place and the only thing you were really sure of was that Allen was actually there. The hole in your heart seems to get bigger the longer neither of you speak directly. 

“So…” You start, having no idea where you want to go. You just need to speak something, something personal. Something to get at a point where you feel you can say everything you need to say before you let him go forever. Even that thought makes you want to go back to sleep and forget you ever woke up. “What kind of person is your wife?” 

It almost surprises you when the words come out and you wonder why that would be the thing that you bring forth. Why? Why would you feel the need to ask about this when you’re already dying on the inside? A strange part of you thinks maybe you want it to hurt—it’s really working if that’s the case. You don’t want to know about the person who took him away from you after you failed to be what he needed. The last thing you wanted was to know where you went wrong—replaced by a woman who could never know him like you do. No one would ever know Allen like you do. 

“She’s…She’s a kind woman…” He speaks slow and softly, but his eyes drop from yours until he’s staring down at the floor. “She’s a great cook and she’s very crafty. She listens well and is more observant than most, I think. I don’t think we’ve ever argued…and I think she’s got a wonderful sense of humor. With how loving she is, she’d be a great mother. I’m sure she’ll be a great wife…” He pauses and shifts his gaze elsewhere in the room. “…but not mine.”

“But…not…yours?” Confusion settles over your mind and it’s a long, slow process to clear it up before you’re able to actually question what he meant by that. This man, who had been in his suit when you remember seeing him initially, had to have arrived after his wedding, so you can’t fathom why he’s saying this. “What do you…” 

“I couldn’t do it,” he replies, cutting you off before you can hold your end of this splintered conversation. “I just…couldn’t. And I tried, I really did. I wanted to…I tried. I even asked her on one knee and I…couldn’t…Because when I was standing there in the dressing room…I couldn’t even fake a smile.” He moves away from you at this point and finds his way into the chair beside your bed. The refusal to look at you is probably a requirement for him to say these things to you without losing the willpower. He’s shaking; but so are you. “She’s not what I want… She’s nice, she’s probably perfect…But damn it, she’s not you.”


	17. Chapter 17

He comes back from a brief intermission—having excused himself to go get something for you to eat. You understand his hesitance, because you’ve felt this way before. Not knowing what to say is the hardest thing when it concerns something so important. That’s why you’ve waited patiently—even if there’s a slight tremble in your hands. 

You couldn’t explain it if you tried how the veil of darkness has been lifted. There should be guilt, that it was you that kept him back from moving on to something probably better for him, but you have nothing but hope that you’re clinging to—holding it so tightly that if it cracks, you’ll probably never survive. It’s all you have left and you are not letting it go this time. 

Why now, of all this time, did he decide to come back? You don’t know and you don’t care. The two of you are in your home again—home now that Allen’s in it with you. Whether he’s here to stay…you’re not sure, but you’re going to make every effort to make sure that he knows this place isn’t more than an empty house without him. 

The transition from ready to die from misery and this new hopeful feeling is almost enough to make you a little ill. It’s a sudden switch in your mind and it hurts because you’re bearing vulnerabilities now. This could destroy you if you let it; but at this point it’s taking a risk or being destroyed anyway. You let him walk away once and now that you know that he’s not tied away to someone else…how can you even think to let him slip away now? You still affect him and you want to affect him forever. 

What his intentions are, you don’t know; but you know your own and when he walks back in the room with a trace of that smile of his, you can’t contain what you need to let out. There’s a tray in his hand and he pushes the door with a nudge, moving in with the tray facing away—so as not to spill it. The glittering in his eyes brings life back to you and you remember why he moved you to begin with. 

“I love you, Allen,” you announce before he can even utter a greeting to you. 

He stops, halting in his tracks; and you swear for a second that he’s going to drop the tray. You wait anxiously, really hoping he doesn’t. Whatever he’s carrying is steaming and your intention isn’t to make him boil himself by dropping things. Fortunately, he’s consciously aware that hot things hurt and he manages to make it to the table before his shaky hands have to let go of the tray. 

His face is as readable as you remember it and he’s already so torn up that his eyes are glassing over. This is what he wanted to hear from you and he wanted you to mean it with the conviction that you have now. You remember him drunk and mulling over the dark things in his life. You were one of them. In your struggles with yourself, you failed to notice just where he stood in your life and just how much he held your foundations solid. He wasn’t just a part of your life, he was your life. It took him leaving for you to recognize that he wasn’t replaceable by anything. 

“Kanda…I…” He chokes through a sob—his hand covering his mouth so he doesn’t sputter like a fool at you. 

“I was stupid,” you say, “and I’m sorry. I’m so very sorry, Allen.” 

You shift and move from your place in the center of the bed, pulling back the blankets so that you can let your feet fall over the side of the bed. You want to sit at the edge and face him fully—not hiding for a change. You’re done with that. You’ve seen what that’s done to both of you and you can’t do that again. You won’t. You fucking refuse to be that stupid ever again. You’re repeating these things in your head until you can feel your eyes burning. You’ve cried more in the last few weeks than the entirety of your life and right now, you just don’t care. You don’t care because he’s seen you at your worst and at your best; and you want him to see you until the end. 

With a deep inhale, you steady yourself until you know he’s completely focused on you. “Once upon a time, you asked me a question. You asked me…What does a scar mean to me?” The recognition in Allen’s eyes shows you that he remembers that. “I didn’t know, because I don’t have any. I don’t have physical reminders of my injuries and the events of my past…they’ve never stuck with me to actually permanently alter me until it becomes an ugly, obvious thing. They were things I could overcome until they weren’t even evident anymore…But I can’t erase regret.” You explain and hope you’re making sense, because in your head, it’s all filling in the empty spots you had before Allen left. 

“Regret?” 

“Regret. I’ve made so many poor choices,” you look down at your hands as you speak, because admitting to your faults isn’t easy. “I’ve ruined myself time and time again, and you were always picking up my pieces and I let you without saying a thing. Without even telling you how much that means. I let…I let you walk away without speaking and I let you believe that I didn’t love you when that was so untrue.” You look up, staring directly at him until you feel like he can see right into your soul for a moment. “Without you in my life, this place became an empty nightmare. My life had no worth. Cross’s gun is lying on the counter because I loaded it with every intention to use it. But even in your absence…You saved me. That’s a power you have, beansprout. You are my savior, my friend, and someone I want in my life and if you have to go, please…have mercy on me and kill me before you leave. Because I can’t live without you again.” 

You have to stop to breathe—that being possibly the most you’ve ever spoken without stopping. The trembling has snaked to the rest of you and you’re afraid you’ve said it too late, because he’s silent. The silence scares you and he’s not looking at you either. Your anxiety escalates until you’re relieving it by blinking away more tears and covering your face so you don’t crumble completely in front of him. 

Then you feel his arms come around you and he’s pulling you close to him. It doesn’t matter that you’re a wreck, because he is too. His cheek brushes yours and you distinctly feel the way his fingers dig into your back as if you’re going to slip between them and he’s afraid. You won’t let him be afraid like that, because you know that fear. That fear is more than a person like you can handle. Your arms snake around him and you’re both heart to heart in the warm, quiet room. 

“I’m so sorry, Kanda,” he whispers and clears his throat so he can speak at all. “I…I was so afraid that I was holding you back. You’d become so withdrawn…and your paintings were getting so dark…that I didn’t understand what to do. I…was afraid I was the problem. If I’d known this would happen…I would never have left. I was…so terrified when I found you that I panicked. If Lavi wasn’t with me, I think I’d have lost you…” He sobs in between words and you’re realizing with the greatest remorse that this was both of you being the same kind of stupid. You were too afraid to speak, too afraid to make decisions and step forward; but so was he. He was too afraid to ask you if he was the problem. The same despair you felt when he walked away, he felt when he realized you had already withdrawn first. 

And you never even realized it. When you took his question and you held it so tightly, searching for answers about yourself, you lost yourself to the point where you lost him too. In doing so, you found the answer in the regret of your lack of conviction—but you also found that certainty and reached an understanding with yourself and your weaknesses. A double edged sword if you ever saw one. 

You undeniably know what your life is dependent on and what you need to seek any personal completion in your soul. This stupid kid who had your instant distain, had turned into the man capable of making you understand what it means to love and be loved. 

“I’m not leaving,” he promises, breathing against your cheek until it feels like a flutter that matches the pulsing of your heart. “There are others out there…others who could be what people think we need, but we’re not good for anyone else.” 

Neither of you say another word, because you don’t have to. You’ve both reached the point where words aren’t necessary and words could always be exchanged later. Right now, you just need him close to you—holding to you for dear life like you are him. Later down the road, you’re sure you’ll both poke fun of this gross display of extreme emotions, but you feel more than justified right now. When thoughts of suicide had been prevalent not long before, this was more than welcome. 

For once, you actually wonder if the god you don’t believe in had decided you were worthy of your silent prayers being answered. Regardless, you aren’t letting go this time.


	18. Chapter 18

He’s sitting on the edge of the bed, peeling an apple while you’re busying yourself with the sketch book in hand. You haven’t been able to move much since your collapse—or rather he won’t let you—and you’ve taken to keeping your hands active with a piece of charcoal and blank paper. Allen has been consistent in his caretaking and the silence, for the most part, is comfortable as you get yourselves back into the flow of living together. He’d been gone for so long, that it’s strange for there to be another person in the house and sometimes your mind tricks you into thinking that it’s all a dream. 

Thankfully, it’s not. The sound of a blade slicing under the skin of the fruit is really the only thing you hear—next to your occasional sketching. You and he haven’t spoken as much as you know you need to, but you’ve been passing words back and forth here and there while you reacquaint yourselves. It’s moments like this, that you realize were what led to the distance; moments where neither of you were willing to speak for acceptance of the silence. 

“How did the idiot react?” You ask the first thing that comes to your mind and you’re suddenly legitimately curious. Lavi had been the one to initially find you and—while you couldn’t discern the difference—he was undeniably there when you were spouting off these embarrassing things to who you thought was Allen. 

“Idiot?” A fine brow rises and Allen stops peeling the apple to make an amused expression at you. “Lavi, you mean? It depends on what you’re referring to.” 

“You skipped out on your wedding to come home, beansprout. Which, you’ve got a pair to do that right before the wedding.” 

“It was during the wedding actually.” 

You stare at him; giving him this incredulous look like you can hardly believe him. In a way, you can’t, because Allen is never a person to let someone down and he undeniably let down his supposed wife-to-be at that time. “That’s beside the point…You left your wedding to come back here. You told me that you arrived the morning after. Given travel time; that means you seriously booked it here if you were where Lavi said you were. So, he obviously has to have an idea that there’s something going on.” 

“As far as I know, he still thinks we’re doomed to die lonely deaths, sharing living spaces as mutual enemies.” He goes back to peeling and you have to consider what he says carefully. 

“After all that I said to him, he doesn’t have any idea?” 

“When and what did you say?” 

“I mouthed off a bunch of shit at him after he was trying to resuscitate me. I know it was specifically directed at you.” 

He stops again, watching you carefully and it’s clear that he’s recounting the event in his mind so he can relay to you what happened. “I was the one who was resuscitating you. Lavi found you and ran to get the doctor.” 

“Wait…Lavi wasn’t still in there?” 

“No, and you weren’t really clear. I know you were muttering things, but it started to become really just a long string of slurs after I cracked your rib.” As if on instinct, you hand fling the piece of charcoal and nails him in the side of the head. A soft yelp comes out and he reaches a hand up to rub the spot where you left a little black mark in his hair. He attempts to pat it out and then makes a face for lack of being able to see it. In a swift motion, he stabs the knife into the apple and points it at you with a scolding face. “Look Mister, if you want to throw things, you’re going to end up eating this the hard way.” 

“You’re the one who broke my rib! I’ve been blaming that asshat this whole time!” 

“Well you should have asked!” He flips the hair out of his face and sets the knife impaled apple on the table—settling with finishing the task later if he remembered. “You’re going to feel really stupid when you go to draw and can’t because you threw your utensil at me, you know.” 

“I’ll get up and get it.” 

“No you won’t, you’re on bed rest, remember?” 

“I feel better, already so will you give it a rest? You’re going to have to let me operate like a normal human at some point.” 

His expression tells you that he’s not giving in that easily and you know you’ve already lost before you started the argument. It’s undeniable just how bad your condition was and after a year of barely eating and maintaining severe dehydration, it only makes sense that you’ll be out of commission while your strength comes back—in addition to a broken rib. 

“You know, I like your hair like this,” he says suddenly and leans back a bit to brush his fingers along the feathered edges that fall by your cheek. 

“Changing the subject.” 

“I’m serious. I was…surprised you did it, but I’m getting used to it…” 

Slender fingers brush through your hair and send a momentary chill up your spine until you’re sending him a ‘cease and desist’ glare for making you visibly show it. He doesn’t and you don’t make any efforts to stop him, so it continues until you’re back to the long silence between you. You don’t mind the silence, but you don’t want to have it fill up your life like before. Yet, speaking is complicated and you seem to understand each other without words—until you miss a beat and screw yourselves up. Back to that double edged sword. You shake your head. “We are entirely too awkward for our own good.” 

“We’re doomed when even you notice.” 

A click of your tongue and you’re expressing your disgruntlement. He rises from his seat and you watch him warily. You’re always watching him now, because you don’t want him to vanish. You can’t chase after him if he tries—not yet anyway, so you want him close. He doesn’t seem to mind and the smile he gives you when he does turn to you makes everything feel like there’s a chance for you to find happiness. 

“I’m going to go make something warm for us to eat. I know you need to eat more than you have been and I’m hungry too, will you be okay for a while?” 

You’re not really sure how you want to reply, because you really hate him being out of sight at the moment. This feeling will fade over time, but after a year of yearning, you know you’re attached to his presence. Without a word, you beckon him to come closer to you and he does without hesitation. There is a certain appreciation that you have in being able to speak to him without a word and when he’s close enough, you pull him by his collar until he’s leaning in. 

For just the briefest moment, you leave him with a light kiss. This action isn’t sexually charged, but sensual and filled with the expression that you’ve failed for nine years. He turns his face when you move back and your cool fingers caress his warm face. You’re telling him that as long as he comes back, you’ll be fine. He knows this. 

It will never be easy, and you know it. Both of you are burdened with conflicting feelings and scars that will never fade, but you’re beginning to learn that a scar can be a trophy as much as a sign of strife. You will never stop silently thanking him from coming home. You have determined that you will not idly sit by, even if it’s uncomfortable. You’ll take the small steps together. 

“How are we going to tell the others about us?” He whispers at you and breaks the silence. 

“ _ Small  _ steps!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The sequel will be posted up shortly.


End file.
